


Sun and Moon

by playswithworms



Series: Protectobot Beginnings [32]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Pun, Fluff, M/M, Other, Pillow Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sideswipe had been a bad influence on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun and Moon

**Author's Note:**

> First published December 2009. Sunny may seem a little OOC here - I'm drawing heavily on the little canon tidbit that he's an artist, a few adorable moments in G1, and a mostly unwritten backstory where First Aid and the twins get to know one another via various traumatic bonding experiences, etc.

“Why?” Sunstreaker asked, looking down at First Aid. He didn’t really expect an answer even though First Aid was good at knowing what he meant, where others might have demanded more words, and Sideswipe would have gone digging through his mind, looking for pictures and clues. Sunstreaker was fairly sure he knew the answer already, anyway, but it was somewhere deep, somewhere where words couldn’t catch it.   
  
First Aid shrugged a little, a mischievous sparkle visible in his optics, behind the visor. “You are  _very_  pretty,” he said, mouth plates quirking in his attempt not to smile. “How can I resist?”      
  
Anyone else being so disrespectfully mirthful at Sunstreaker’s expense would have been summarily squashed, but Sunstreaker merely lifted his optics ceilingward for a moment as if asking Primus for patience.  Sideswipe had been a bad influence on him; Sunstreaker didn’t remember First Aid always being this…impish, though perhaps he got some of it from Streetwise.  Hot Spot said they seemed to be growing more like one another, as they got older, rather than less. Sunstreaker stared down at First Aid for a long time, unblinking, while First Aid gazed back contentedly.      
  
“Beautiful,” Sunstreaker murmured. He traced a finger down the edge of First Aid’s helm, continuing over his face and unmasked cheek plating with a feather light artist’s touch. First Aid crinkled up the side of his face at the tingling, tickling sensation and laughed, brushing his hands over Sunstreaker’s helm and placing them on either side in return.    
  
“It’s sweet of you to say so,” he said, and lifted his head to kiss Sunstreaker lightly on the lips.     
  
“You don’t believe me?” Sunstreaker loomed dangerously, a hint of a growl in his voice. First Aid laughed, unimpressed, and tried to kiss Sunstreaker a second time. Sunstreaker firmed his lip plates against him and growled again, furrowing his optic ridges. All of which served to deter the smaller medic not in the slightest. Sunstreaker tried to maintain his stony expression, but all of his defenses crumbled as First Aid continued to press playful kisses all over his faceplate, growing steadily sloppier and more exaggerated until finally Sunstreaker’s control broke with an undignified snort of laughter.      
  
“Mrmph,” Sunstreaker grumbled, rubbing his face roughly (or roughishly, at any rate) against Aid’s for a moment and then rolling them over so First Aid was draped over him.     
  
“I,” Sunstreaker said, emphatically, so that there would be no question, “am never, under any circumstances, sweet.”      
  
First Aid lifted his head, crossing his forearms on the yellow chestplates, and looked down at Sunstreaker with a fond but serious expression. “We weren’t designed to be beautiful, you know,” he said, wrinkling his brow slightly as if concerned Sunstreaker might be operating under a misconception. “It’s not something we ever really worried about.”     
  
Sunstreaker picked up one of First Aid’s hands from his chest, lifting it a little until it caught the warm dim glow from the wall lights. The urge to repaint and restore the finish, worn and dull from vorns of endlessly repairing, was almost like a physical ache but getting First Aid to stop fixing long enough to let paint dry was like trying to stop a galaxy from spinning. Too large to be in proportion, nearly as large as his own hands, the long fingers bulging oddly here and there with the myriad tools of the medic’s trade. No, not beautiful, except when they were in motion maybe, sure and steady and graceful and knowing, or when they struck him to the spark for no reason at all.       
  
“I painted a slag heap once,” he said, turning the hand in his grip gently until the shadows and highlights along the fingers met with his approval.  “There was a forge nearby, and fires would light up the slag heaps, and sometimes sparks would fly, and burn for awhile and the piles would glow from the inside. It was beautiful.”     
  
That was a long speech, coming from Sunstreaker. First Aid’s optics crinkled in a little smile behind his visor. “So you’re saying I’m beautiful like a slag heap?”     
  
The corners of Sunstreaker’s lips quirked upwards, but he didn’t answer, returning his gaze to First Aid’s face and watching how the blue optics danced behind the multiple layers of light and iridescent reflection from the visor, how the glow and shadow of red-orange light across white face plating reminded him of Earth’s moon in eclipse. How the indentation just above Aid’s upper lip looked like it would match the shape of his own thumb component exactly. Sunstreaker pressed his thumb to the place, testing, and then stroked and explored the smiling lips and chin as if he were molding the supple, responsive alloys he used for sculpture.  First Aid leaned to his hand and both their intakes quickened slightly.        
  
“Do that thing again,” Sunstreaker asked him, and First Aid drew back to look down at him in amusement.  
  
 “The dirty talk? Sunstreaker, you know that’s not really my thing.”      
  
“Please?” Sunstreaker gave First Aid’s hand a pleading caress.     
  
It was First Aid’s turn to lift his optics briefly ceilingward, but he was still smiling. “Just this once,” he said, sighing with mock resignation. Sunstreaker’s optics flared in anticipation as First Aid stretched himself full length against him and pressed his mouth plates close to the side of the golden helm.     
  
“Smudge,” First Aid whispered hotly into his audio, drawing out the word, lingering over every sound. “Scuff marks.”     
  
Sunstreaker shuddered.


End file.
